


Music of the Night

by tangerinabina_de_archanea



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Blood, Edelthea Week (Fire Emblem), F/F, Seteth and Manuela are a thing but only for like two seconds, Sexual Content, Tuberculosis because what's a victorian au without Good Old Fashioned Consumption, at the very least, edelthea week 2020, mentions of torture, not too explicit but it's there, or like... victorian adjacent, so i won't put that under relationships, vampire!edelgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinabina_de_archanea/pseuds/tangerinabina_de_archanea
Summary: Edelgard has long since turned away from the light. Despite this, the light of the opera stage still captivates her, and nothing is more beguiling than the rose blooming upon it.Written for Edelthea Week 2020.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 44
Kudos: 113





	1. Let the Dream Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Fun

“Perhaps some leisure time would benefit you, Lady Edelgard.”

A hand clothed in red extends into the moonlight, and filigreed golden tips tap repeatedly on the table in a rhythmic motion. “Perhaps,” the woman repeats. The tapping ceases, drenching the room in silence, and she leans forward. White hair and pale skin flash, and for a moment she is only a silvery sheen with lavender eyes, blinking slowly, before the light rearranges itself properly on her features and she looks like a woman again, decorated in red and gold. “And what do you propose I do with this leisure time, Hubert?”

“May I suggest…” The man thinks for a moment, hunching forward like a hulking beast, with his fist on his chin, and his inky black hair falls over one of his golden eyes like a creeping, sinister tendril trying to pluck it out. “The opera.”

“The opera…” She lazily lifts a finger and runs it along the edge of a wine glass, the bottom of the crystalline cup blossoming as a red rose with a dark liquid. “Very well. I hear there is a premiere tonight.” She lifts the cup to her lips and they are stained red, as red as her gloves, as red as her dress, as red as the liquid flowing through her teeth. “Ready my carriage.”

“It will be done.” He melts back into the shadows, and in a moment he is the shadows. His presence permeates the room, slipping between each dark corner until suddenly he is gone, and Edelgard is alone. She leans back into the darkness and licks her lips, her teeth flashing white.

* * *

The foundation of the opera is song, and the building shakes with each note. Curtains rustle, gold leaf trembles, and even the mighty columns of white marble slouch and sigh when there is silence. Edelgard moves through it like water, her blood red cape sliding over the floor behind her as a deadly snake in the undergrowth, waiting to strike, and her shadow follows her. People whisper around her, their words thrumming in her ears like droning insects and the evidence of their riches flashing like beetle’s wings. She ignores them, for they are truly nothing more than insects, pretty little baubled things to be ground into a beautiful red to paint her lips with. Hubert mutters something, and she motions for him to be quiet, and he becomes her shadow once again. 

The light inside the theater, pouring from the stage like a rich honey, is the closest to the sun that she has seen in a long time, and she basks in it as the music beckons for her to sit and forget the corrupt world that claws at her cloak and tears at her hair. She does just that, and as her eyes drift down to the players upon the stage, a woman in red catches her eye. She reminds Edelgard of a rose, with billowing petals and glinting drops of dew tinted gold by the sun, and she drinks her rich voice in as if it is a feast for her and her alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying something different for this fic, with shorter and more artsy chapters so I can (hopefully) keep up. Regardless, this is the most self indulgent thing i've ever written i stg and i love it jdsflkjdsf


	2. Let Your Soul Take You Where You Long to Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: nobility/laity

The ballroom after the premiere is decadent to the point of being cloying. An eagle cloaked in black prowls the edge of the lavish room, the feathers on her cape flashing red underneath each time they rustle, and a lanky rat follows her, entirely black save his white paws. The eagle stares at a rose, the ball’s centerpiece, and yet she stays back, for she knows her talons will only tear the rose to pieces.

The rose flits through the crowd, accepting kisses upon her hand and compliments on her petals and her voice, and stays with each person just long enough to leave an impression, but not long enough to remember their names. No one will forget her when the night is over, and many will remember her even long after, and she will haunt them with her voice and her beauty, and her trap will be complete before they even realize they are trapped. It is one they could easily escape, and yet her perfumed sweetness and supple beauty will make their cage seem stronger than diamonds for a time, until a different rose traps them and she withers away, forgotten.

The eagle slips along the wall to a balcony, leaving a chill in her wake, and the rat lingers at the doorway, ensuring that his mistress remains unbothered. Still, he lets the rose slip through, for he saw the eagle’s gaze and understands her admiration as if it were his own.

“Quite the enigmatic one, aren’t you?” The rose’s words are all honeyed sweet, as is her mask, bedecked with red roses that curve along her brow and cheek to mingle with the silken copies in her hair. They are not as innocent as they seem, however, and are surrounded by thorns ready to tear into any who get too close. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“I rarely attend the opera. Tonight is my first night seeing you as well.” The eagle turns, the great black hooked beak of her mask swinging threateningly as her gaze shifts, and the carved feathers along it swirl and twist back into her hair, shining white in the moonlight. Her cloak opens as she extends a hand with the intent to meet the rose’s with a firm grasp of greeting, revealing the brilliant red of her dress underneath the black feathers. 

The rose has other ideas, and if not for the eagle’s gloves, her lips, soft as petals, would brush against her skin. As it is, they caress red silk instead, and the eagle is flustered, and the rose smiles a little, looking rather self-satisfied.

They speak well into the night, the thread of their conversation growing ever longer and longer. The rose admits that she is common, and that there are hundreds of thousands of roses like her and that she is only very lucky, and the eagle tells her that is not so, for she has never met a rose, common or noble, who is like her. The rose smiles politely, and she does not believe it, but she does not tell the eagle so.

However, to her surprise, she remembers the eagle’s name long after the night is over, and she murmurs it to herself, tasting each of the three syllables in her mouth like splashes of wine and rubies and sweet cherries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."_ - _The Little Prince_ , Antoine de Saint-Exupery


	3. Floating, Falling, Sweet Intoxication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: gift / secrets

Dorothea understands her position in life to be likened to that of a mouse caught in a hawk’s talons; that is, despite the fact that she’s feeling a little pinched and a little squeezed, she is nonetheless currently flying, and that flight must eventually stop when the hawk decides to land on a branch and gobble the mouse up. Unlike a mouse, Dorothea has enough sense to be just the right amount of scared while still taking in the scenery, and knows how to make the hawk let go before she’s devoured so that she can scurry off and find a comfortable place to make home with someone pleasant. 

Many are eager to be that someone pleasant, and so she receives many gifts from would be suitors, all charmed by her beauty and voice. Lady Edelgard’s gifts are the standard fare of flowers and jewels and beautiful clothing. Her letters, however, penned as if she is conducting a business transaction and not a love affair, are what set her apart, and Dorothea always hums in amusement as she reads them and lifts her quill to pen her acceptance of whatever invitation Edelgard has offered. She may wish to marry and live a comfortable, secure life, but even so, she has standards, and not many suitors can say that they have dined with her more than once. Edelgard, on the other hand, has never been refused.

Gifts are stacked precariously in Dorothea’s dressing room, and she keeps them all, but it is only Edelgard’s that she looks upon fondly, and it is only Edelgard’s that she insists upon wearing over all others, and it is only Edelgard’s that she will parade in front of the other members of the company.

Their first meeting was months ago. Between their meetings, time crept on as slowly as it possibly could, flitting between the shadows and only revealing itself in the moonlight, when Edelgard would arrive. It is during these hours that the hands of the clock seem to be doing their best to run much too quickly. Under the light of the moon, Dorothea is charmed by Edelgard’s passion for her beliefs, and her determination, and her intelligence, and her awkward sweetness, and Edelgard is charmed by Dorothea’s talent, and her quick wit, and her kindness, and her perseverance. 

On some nights Dorothea greets Edelgard, clothed in nothing but the gifts of her beloved, silver and gold necklaces and bracelets and earrings, as she reclines on the settee in her dressing room. Edelgard loses no time in laying her hands and lips upon her, and then she slides down between her legs and devours her as Dorothea cries out breathlessly, her hands tangled in her hair and her lips singing a song so different from those she performs onstage, only for Edelgard. “Edie…” she murmurs, and then her words are gone and her chest rises and her head tilts back as she gasps. 

One day the rose will wilt, Dorothea insists, as every rose given to her eventually does, but Edelgard caresses her and tells her she doesn’t think so, and Dorothea is lost in her touch again.

It is not long before Edelgard bears another distinction among Dorothea’s suitors, one more significant than the rest, and it is that she is the only one of them to ever hear the precious words “I love you” sung from her lips, and she returns it tenfold.

Even so, something about Edelgard makes Dorothea feel uneasy, for she can tell that something is being hidden closely behind her heart, just out of sight. Edelgard dodges questions too easily, or gives answers that are cryptic at best and ridiculous at worst. The nagging suspicions tug at her during their trysts in the dressing room and their dinners in lavish restaurants and hurried goodbyes before dawn. Edelgard never asks for pleasure in return, and she does not eat, and she is never seen during the daytime, and Dorothea worries that it is beyond mere eccentricity. 

One day, she hopes to learn everything. Still, despite her worries, Edelgard is never refused. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i am Very Gay for Ms Dorothea Arnault


	4. Nighttime Sharpens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: singing/fighting

Dorothea grows weary as the months pass, wilting little by little each day. Her eyes are heavy and her petals droop and her body grows thin, and Edelgard insists that she come home with her in the night. It is there that she tends to her rose and waters her and cares for her, and yet still she wilts. Perhaps it is the lack of sunlight from the heavy curtains, always kept shut, or perhaps it is the food that she refuses almost as much as Edelgard does, or perhaps it is the cold drafts of an ancient home even as she burns up at night. Dorothea says that she will be well again soon, and that this is a consequence of the dreadful cold in the winter months, and leaves the issue at that even as she accepts each and every one of Edelgard’s invitations to care for her.

Beneath Dorothea’s sweet perfumes and fragrances, Edelgard smells only death.

“One day, I’ll sing only for you, Edie.”

Dorothea is warm, so much warmer than anything Edelgard has held in her life. She is the sun in her arms, and she nearly burns her, even through the thick blanket she’s wrapped in. Her lover’s embrace is too cold for her to be held long in it, especially with her frequent chills. That is something that Edelgard regrets deeply.

“And what of the opera? What will they do without their premier songstress?”

“The opera will get by, as the opera always does. I’m not special. I’m just another pretty young face with a beautiful voice. Do you think they can’t replace me?”

“No, I don’t.” She brushes her fingertips, clothed in red, over Dorothea’s cheek, caressing the curves of her face with the curves of her hand. “You are irreplaceable, my rose.”

“Oh, Edie… You really are something special, aren’t you?” She kisses her slowly, languidly, and Dorothea’s breath is hot in her mouth. “You know, once my days of performing are over, maybe I’ll write an opera. About you. The mysterious woman who whisked a young opera singer away into the night… It could be quite dramatic, and romantic.”

“I have no doubt that it could, but I may die of embarrassment before rehearsals are even underway.”

“Really?” she giggles a little, a light, melodic sound. “What a shame. I was so hoping you’d be able to see it.” She curls herself tighter, her face falling as she shivers a little.

“Would you like me to fetch you another blanket?”

Dorothea is silent, almost as if Edelgard’s words passed over her. “The mysterious woman…” she mumbles to herself, and then raises her voice enough for Edelgard’s ears, and Edelgard’s only. ‘It’s so cold… Edie, why are  _ you _ so cold?” It’s a question she’s asked many times before, but it carries an unsettling weight this time. “Why are you always so cold?”

She begins to deliver the usual answer, the practiced one that is not a lie yet not entirely a truth either. “That is just how I am, Dorothea-”

“No.” Dorothea’s interruption is surprising, and she only burns more in her arms as she sits up, the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders like a dead animal’s fur draped around a noblewoman. “It’s not natural. No one on earth is as cold as you.”

“What? I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve never heard your heartbeat. I don’t know if it even beats under there, even though I know it must, but I’ve never heard it. You don’t eat. You refuse to go out in daylight, or even open a curtain. You have never allowed me to give you pleasure once.”

“What does any of this matter?”

“What are you, Edie? Are you ill? An addict? A ghost? If I was more gullible, I would believe that. You look like the ghosts they speak about in tales, and you haunt this house like one...”

Her sun slips away from her and off the bed, shrouded in clouds. The burning heat is too much for her, and then it is gone, and yet Edelgard aches for it to return. “I am flesh and blood, just as you are, Dorothea. If my mannerisms seem odd to you-”

“There is something you’re not telling me. I know there is.” There are tears in Dorothea’s eyes, shining more brilliantly than the diamonds at her throat, given to her many months ago by her lover. Edelgard is blinded by them, and the tears fall and diamonds flash as Dorothea coughs violently, wilting a little more. Her lips are redder when she next speaks. “I’ve known for a long time, Edie, and I can’t do this anymore. Not if you’re not truthful to me.”

“...I am hiding nothing from you. Please come back to bed, Dorothea-”

“Liar!” The word is suspended in the air between them, bloated and heavy, and then it crashes down, shattering and slicing Edelgard to pieces. “I love you. I want to believe you, but I can’t. I just can’t, Edie.” Her sobs are full fledged, intertwined with violent coughing like weeds choking flowers, and she turns away as Edelgard reaches out to her.

“My rose-”

“All roses have thorns. You shouldn’t be careless with them, or you’ll bleed.”

The door slams and the sun is gone, long set behind the horizon. Edelgard would cry if she could, but instead she comes to her senses and rushes after her. 

She must care for her. Her rose must not wilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose..."  
> _  
>  _"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember._  
>   
>  - _The Little Prince_ , Antoine de Saint-Exupery


	5. Purge Your Thoughts of the Life You Knew Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: scars/burden
> 
> Thank you so much to Bell for beta reading this chapter for me!!! You're the absolute best <3

_“Lady Edelgard.”_

_She raises her eyes to him, heavy with exhaustion and thirst. The silver on his coat glints in the sunlight, and she winces._

_“Hubert.”_

_“You’re alive.”_

_“Not exactly.”_

_His silence is heavy, and it drags him down to his knees in front of her as he reaches out a tentative yet respectful hand to her hair, the same snowy white shade as his glove._

_“I see,” is all he says, and then his hand is at his collar, practiced fingers unbuttoning his shirt and baring his throat to her. It looks like snow._

_“No.” His bangs cut across his eyes as trees do in a dark wood, his gaze almost curious as he tilts his head to expose a snowy path between his chest and his neck._

_“My life is yours, Lady Edelgard. Down to the last drop.”_

_“I won’t.” She is starving, she is so cold that she is burning up, and his blood calls to her._

_“Make me yours.”_

_Red wells up on the path of snow, autumn leaves freshly fallen. It is not natural. It is not their time, and yet they are there regardless. His grunt of pain is muffled by a gloved hand over his mouth, not white but red. “Quietly, Hubert,” she murmurs, and sinks her teeth in again._

* * *

Edelgard feels the sting of her rose’s thorns as she sits in her box at the opera, half concealed by shadow. Despite this, Dorothea can still see her from the stage, for she knows where to look. It would hurt less if she shot her vindictive glares and angry glances, but she ignores her entirely, her head held high and her white petals unruffled. Even from afar, Edelgard can still tell that her movements are weak and her limbs tired. 

She wishes she hadn’t left last night, and she wishes that she hadn’t been so stubborn, and she wishes she had told her the truth. Anything to keep her rose at her side, where she could care for her and tend to her and keep her safe.

When the opera is finished with a grand swell of music and song and fanfare and glittering golds and silks and jewels, Edelgard rises almost immediately, stepping towards the door of her box. Hubert emerges from the shadows to block her way with a hand on her shoulder, and a dark look passing over his face.

“Is this wise, Lady Edelgard?”

“She deserves to know, Hubert. I have kept secrets from her too long.”

“I strongly advise against this. This woman knows where you live. The church could be upon us before we even depart this theater. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“So they do, but I will not let fear stop me, nor will I allow you to stop me. Step aside, Hubert.”

He presses his hand to his heart, a brilliant white that seems suspended in the shadows for a moment as he bows, and then he steps aside, becoming one again with the night.

Slipping through the halls silently and invisibly, Edelgard follows the familiar path to Dorothea’s dressing room. 

* * *

_“How did this happen?” Hubert’s voice is hushed and low, uncharacteristically softened by worry, and by pity, Edelgard thinks. She does not want to be pitied._

_“They stole me away and fed on me. They used magic to keep me alive when I should have died.” She draws her knees to her chest, the water of her bath sloshing around her and nearly over the edge. “I wish I died.”_

_“You did,” he murmurs quietly, raising a cloth to gently scrub at her cheek. His blood seems determined to stain her face as it stains the shirt he still wears, white streaked with splotches of red beneath the hastily tied bandages. His hands are trembling, as slightly as the calming water she sits in, but she notices it nonetheless, and she knows it is because of her._

_“And yet here I am.” She sinks further in the water, away from his hand, but he follows her insistently._

_“How did you escape?”_

_“I bit one of them. I tore into their flesh and washed my teeth with their blood.” Her voice grows quieter, sinking beneath the water with her. It’s red now, from all the blood and grime, red as blood. It may as well be blood. “I thought I was going to die, and I did, but then I did not. I became like them.” Her voice hardens and her fists clench, and the tub overflows as she suddenly sits up. Hubert remains immovable as a statue as the water splashes him. “I will destroy them.”_

_“Allow me to aid you, Lady Edelgard. I pledge myself to your cause.”_

_“Hubert, I have already taken enough from you-”_

_“But you have not. ‘Down to the last drop,’ I said. Did I not?” The idea frightens her. She has already taken too many drops._

_“You did.”_

_“And you have not yet taken the last drop. I still have much to give, Lady Edelgard.”_

_“Hubert…”_

_“I swear, upon these scars,” he says, lifting his hand to his neck, where she tore into him earlier like a starving animal, “to aid you in any way I can. You will have your vengeance, and anything else you desire. Allow me to paint the path that lies before you red with the blood of your enemies. I will do it gladly.”_

_“Don’t you think that’s a waste of blood, Hubert? I’d much rather drink it.”_

_She catches him off guard with that, and she laughs so hard that she could cry, but her eyes have forgotten how, and the bloody bathwater streaking down her face cries in her stead._

* * *

Dorothea stays firmly rooted to the chair in front of her vanity when Edelgard enters, not even sparing a glance in her direction. “Why are you here?” she asks, fluffing her hair as she removes pins and jewels and silk flowers, her hands as steady and gentle as ever. Edelgard almost wishes they were shaking with anger and heat, not cool and unfaltering.

“I wish to make amends with you, Dorothea.”

“Do you now?”

Edelgard appears in her mirror, her face half lit by the candles on her dressing table. “I do, more than anything. There will be no more lies. I swear.”

“On what?”

Edelgard raises her hands, silently asking for permission, and Dorothea lowers hers, nodding. Her gloves are gone in a moment, abandoned on the dressing table, and her fingers deftly wind through her hair, tending to her petals as she long has. Her eyes do not follow her hands, for there is no need; her hands are well-practiced, and her eyes are only to gaze into Dorothea’s, watching her in the mirror. 

“On what, Edie? Your life?”

“I have no life to swear it on.”

Dorothea pales, even more so than she has over the past months, and she stiffens under Edelgard’s cold touch. “Then what do you have to swear it on?”

“I have my love for you. I have Hubert’s loyalty. I have the scars from my death. I have my desire for revenge. I have my home and everything inside it, and that is all I have.”

“The scars,” Dorothea whispers, and Edelgard nods.

The eagle plucks and skins herself, shedding every layer until she stands bare before her rose, her skin mottled and littered with countless scars, winding like snakes around her torso and arms and legs, harsh, puckered pink against white like jagged cuts in snow blooming with old blood. 

Dorothea gasps as she turns to see, and her fingers dance over her maimed flesh as a faltering, indecisive butterfly alights on myriad wildflowers. Edelgard lets her hair fall loose as Dorothea drinks her in, reflecting the candles’ light as the moon does the sun’s.

“Edie, who… who did this to you?” Her voice is weak from shock and horror, no more substantial than a ghost.

“I will answer all your questions in due time, I promise. But let me do as you asked first. Let me swear on my scars.” She takes Dorothea’s hands in hers and pulls her to her feet, a practiced step in a dance they are long familiar with but has never occurred in a scene such as this.

“No… No, you don’t have to-”

She silences her with a kiss, and her next words are low, for Dorothea’s ears only. “I swear on these scars, every last one of them, that I will never lie to you again. I regret that I ever did, and I apologize… but I will not beg for your forgiveness. It is yours to give if you choose, and nothing more. Regardless of your answer, I love you, Dorothea, with all my heart and soul, or what is left of it.”

She nods slowly, her gaze drifting downwards as her hands do, following the paths cut into her beloved. “Tell me who did this. Tell me everything. Are you alive?”

“Listen to my heart for yourself.”

Dorothea presses her ear to her breast and finds silence, no breath, no heartbeat, just the impenetrable silence of a grave given a twisted recreation of life again, brought among the living to bury them. “You’re not alive...” She draws her head away, a cough pausing her words. “But you’re not dead, either.”

“I’m not.”

* * *

_“Hubert, let me see.”_

_He folds the handkerchief neatly and swiftly, and it vanishes into his pocket._

_“I can smell it.”_

_“Can you?” His tone is unaffected._

_“You haven’t been eating, and now this. What’s wrong?”_

_He turns away from her, and she slips her hand into his pocket, undeterred, and withdraws it to find the red upon white that she feared._

_“You’re coughing up blood.”_

_“I will serve you until the end, Lady Edelgard,” he replies simply._

_“You must rest.”_

_“I must destroy your enemies. I must protect you.”_

_“Hubert.” Her hand finds his wrist, bonier than usual, as he leaves. “Please.”_

* * *

“What are you, Edie?”

“I exist somewhere in between, without the joys of life or reprieve of death… I could die, well and truly die, if I wished, but I still stubbornly cling to this half life as if it means something.” She is silent as her heartbeat, yet still her heart speaks loudly as she gazes at Dorothea, her eyes softening. “In moments with you, Dorothea, I am glad that I did.”

She tells her everything, weaving the threads of her history into a splotchy, bloodstained tapestry, one too grotesque for any to look upon easily, and yet Dorothea does not turn her face away once during the weaving. When she is done, the silence in the room is suffocating, and Edelgard herself turns away, wishing she could shred the tapestry and begin anew with brighter thread. 

“You always say the most preposterous and extraordinary things, Edie.”

“Do you not believe me?”

“I do, I do…” She approaches her from behind and slides her hands over her skin yet again, her palms and fingers catching on each scar as if they are barbed and violent, ready to protect the woman they adorn from the touch of any living thing. “How could I not? I wish you had told me before, but…”

“There are those who seek to destroy beings like me. The church, for instance. I only wished to protect myself… and it was at your expense.”

“I forgive you, Edie. I love you.” She embraces her, and turns her back to her, and kisses her, and whispers “I love you” more times than either could count, lost in the haze of night. “Tell me, does blood taste sweeter when it is willingly given?”

“Why do you ask?” 

“I want to know what it’s like. I want to share your pain.”

It is a naive request, to be sure, because Dorothea could never experience the pain she did with a single bite, and furthermore she would never harm her rose, not after tending to her so carefully and thoroughly. It will still hurt, but she can soothe the pain. 

Edelgard’s fangs glint in the candlelight, sharpened, deadly pearls hidden in a smile like the waning moon.

“Oh,” Dorothea says softly as she stares at them, and then her hand is at her collar, practiced fingers tugging at the ribbon around her neck and letting the fabric fall softly to her rosy shoulders.

“Dorothea.” Edelgard says her name like a prayer, beseeching her and yet with hesitation all the same.

“It’s okay, Edie. I don’t mind.” She raises her hands towards her, her pure white sleeves billowing beneath her slender arms like the wings of an angel. “Make me yours.”

Edelgard is on her in a moment, and Dorothea gasps, her chest heaving as her neck is stained crimson and her wings are bloodied and mangled. The cherubs painted on the ceiling gaze down in judgement as they watch the angel fall to the couch as the vampire feasts, and the angel’s tears mix with her blood and make it all the more delicious as her pretty red lips curl into a smile. Edelgard’s hand presses between her thighs and her angel sings, more beautifully than ever.

When she lifts her head, drunk on her sweet blood and sweeter love, there is blood on Dorothea’s lips. Edelgard does not remember kissing her, and yet, the telltale drop is there, shining like a ruby. She tastes it, and it is sour and reeking of illness, an illness that she’s certain she knows but can’t quite place.

* * *

_One day Hubert falls, and he does not rise again._

_“Hubert!”_

_It is sudden, so sudden, and nothing in this world could prepare her for it. His breath shakes as she gathers him into her arms. “Forgive me.” His voice is labored, each word a battle in a losing war. “I could not…”_

_“There is nothing to forgive.” A hand clothed in red finds his cheek and caresses it once, twice, in a soothing motion. He tries to inhale and the sound is horrific. “No… No, don’t. Don’t leave me… Hubert!”_

_He lowers his eyes, heavy with exhaustion and hunger._

_She tears her wrist open with her own teeth, and blood spatters upon his lips and in his mouth. Hubert exhales, and when he opens his eyes again, his mouth stained with blood and Edelgard’s exhausted form still clutching his body, he no longer has need for breath._


	6. Turn Your Face Away From the Garish Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: magic / company

The church begins yet another crusade against the creatures of the night, and Edelgard’s box at the opera sits empty and darker than usual. Dorothea made her leave, as did Hubert, with promises to see each other again soon when it was safe, and a press of gold in Dorothea’s hand as Edelgard insisted she see a physician. Every day Dorothea hears news of the church’s activities, and between scenes she prays to no deity other than Lady Luck that her lover remains safely concealed in the darkness, hidden from the holy light, and coughs into handkerchiefs. 

* * *

Dorothea does not perform that night, or the next night, or the next. She stumbles into the opera, delirious with fever, even as Manuela urges her to return home and rest.

“She’ll look for me here. I must wait for her, Manuela.”

Manuela understands that she speaks of the pretty white-haired noble that watches her from her box like an eagle, and she doesn’t have the heart to remind her that she’s been gone for more than a few months, and, if Maneula’s past experiences inform her correctly, will likely never come back. Such is the way of infatuated patrons of the arts. “You must go home and rest, Dorothea. You’re very ill.”

“I won’t go home. I can’t. I don’t know where home is.”

Manuela shakes her head and sighs, knowing that such ravings are brought on by the fever, and she ushers her to her dressing room. Dorothea tucks herself away inside, too hungry to perform and too weak to eat, and when a physician is called, she shakes her head and tells the opera company only to make her comfortable.

When she is restless Manuela sings to her as a mother to her child, and it is only in those moments that Dorothea quiets, and her cries of “Edie, Edie, Edie!” are lost to the music. She stares listlessly at the door, clutching her blanket more tightly even as her petals droop, and when she sleeps it is fitfully, echoing the same cry of her waking hours.

“Edie, Edie, Edie!”

* * *

The company is rehearsing when a woman in red appears onto the stage, a patron that none have seen in months, with a man in black beside her, more closely connected than her shadow.

“Where is she?” 

They stare at the imposing woman, her visage and form stained blood red from the crimson lights above, and she returns their stares, harsh and worried.

“Where is Dorothea?” Her voice rings out, and Manuela steps forward. 

“Dorothea is gravely ill. She’s been calling for you for days.”

The woman is already gone, her cape flowing behind her like blood from a corpse dragged across the floor, and her shadow follows.

* * *

Dorothea is huddled on her settee, withered and drooping, clutching her fallen petals to herself to keep her warm. When she sees Edelgard, she smiles weakly, and extends her hands out to her. “Edie, oh, Edie… I was so terrified you wouldn’t come. I don’t want to be alone, Edie. I’ll die if I’m alone…”

Edelgard rushes to her, and for once Dorothea seems so small as she hunches over her to take her in her arms and kiss her, roughly, tenderly, passionately, desperately, as if it could prevent her rose from sinking into eternal slumber. She has seen people whose faces look like this before, who have unwittingly already offered their hand to Death for a kiss. “Dorothea… you’re nothing but skin and bones.”

“Only thorns left on this rose,” she sighs. “Kiss me again. Please, I can’t bear it.”

“I can save you.”

“Edie, kiss me.”

“You’ll have to become like Hubert and I, but-”

“Kiss me.”

“You-” Dorothea cuts her off with a sharp kiss, tearing into her lip and making her bleed. 

“Edie, when a dying woman says ‘Kiss me,’” she gasps as her head falls back, blood smearing her mouth, “you kiss her.”

Edelgard’s laugh is low and quick, tinged with despair and worry but full of love for the spark of Dorothea that yet lives. “I’ll be certain to keep that in mind.” She caresses her cheek, softly, gently, and presses her forehead against hers. She is bathed in sweat, warm and slippery as blood and dotting her skin like dew. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner... There’s no telling how much time you have left. I wasn’t sure, but now… Yes, this is certainly the same. I’ve seen this before.”

“Hubert?” Dorothea whispers, and she nods.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to die. I’m terrified, Edie.” Her voice is so quiet, so weak compared to its usual sonority. “But I’m terrified of what you are too. It scares me. What will I be?”

“Neither living nor dead. You will be in between, and an outcast. I won’t shy from the ugly truth, my dear rose… I swore there would be no more lies.” She brushes her knuckles against her cheekbone, so much more pronounced than usual.

“I’d expect nothing less from you.” Her voice is tempered with tears, ones that she barely seems to be aware of. When Dorothea cries onstage, it is careful and clean and beautiful, but this is messy and raw and ugly. Nothing reeks of theatrics in this room. “What will I do?”

“You will feed on the living to sate your thirst. You will be hunted and shunned and condemned by gods and men.”

“I don’t care much for the opinion of gods, so that’s alright, I suppose, and there are several men who attend this opera that I think deserve to be drained…” A cough racks her whole body, and Edelgard holds her even more closely, bending over her and allowing her cape to shield them both from the reaper’s looming scythe. “What will I miss?”

“The company of others. The food, the drink, the festivities. You will never see the sun again.”

“What need…” She inhales sharply, struggling to breathe, and for a moment Edelgard thinks it her last and clutches her all the more tightly. “What need,” she repeats, “do I have for the sun, when you are right here?”

Edelgard sobs in relief, and kisses her deeply, softly, lovingly. “You’re quite the poet.”

“Every artist must have her muse.” She is quiet, and then raises her hands to clutch at Edelgard’s dress. “You’ll take care of me, won’t you?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Then do what you must, Edie. Make me yours.”

She kisses her as she reaches for her dagger, and her blood drips rubies.

* * *

The chatter among the opera company is incomprehensible the next day. Dorothea did not leave, nor did the woman in red and the man in black. It is rumored that he stood outside the door of her dressing room all night, but none are quite sure if that is the case, for when their eyes slide away from him he seems to vanish altogether.

Manuela is the first to see her when she emerges, and she rushes to her, fraught with worry. Dorothea is vibrant and radiant and well again, a rose restored to full bloom against all hope, and somehow even more enchanting. Perhaps her near loss has lent an emphasis to her features and mannerisms, or perhaps it is something else entirely. “How?” Manuela breathes, and Dorothea smiles, more sharply than usual. Her lips are red, as red as a rose, as red as blood.

“We sing of love conquering all often enough, Manuela. I would think you’d know how.”

The woman in red is standing a distance back, with her shadow behind her. Her smile is the same as Dorothea’s, red and sharp. 


	7. You Alone Can Make My Song Take Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: together / future

“Perhaps some leisure time would benefit you, Lady Edelgard.”

“I agree, Hubert. Come, Edie, why don’t we go somewhere fun?”

The moonlight casts harsh shadows across the room, only softened by the glow of the fire that Dorothea is reclining by, sunning herself like a cat. The insistent scratch of Edelgard’s quill ceases as she considers the proposition, tapping the nails of her ungloved hand rhythmically on the table. “And what do you two propose I do with this leisure time?”

“The opera, of course,” Dorothea says as she rises, humming and dancing her way across the room to her wife as a flower does in the breeze. “It’s been so long since we went. Can we go, please? Maybe even invite a few friends to come along?” Her dance ends as she settles into her wife’s lap, and her arms settle around her wife’s shoulders, giving her a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“An excellent suggestion, Lady Dorothea,,” Hubert agrees. He resides where he is most comfortable, out of the moonlight’s reach, and yet his gloves still catch the light brilliantly.

“The opera…” Edelgard says as she pretends to consider it, swirling the dark blood blossoming in the bottom of her wine glass before sipping delicately. Without question, she passes it to Dorothea, and her lips are stained the same red. She doesn’t need to consider, for she already knows the answer, but she knows that the moment she says yes her rose will leap up to get ready, always eager to fluff and decorate her petals whenever they go out. She’d rather her stay a few moments longer.

“There’s a premiere, tonight, Edie. Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

“My sweet Dorothea, my days of attending the opera to gawk at beautiful women are long over.”

Dorothea laughs, curling a strand of Edelgard’s hair with a single delicate finger. “What about the beautiful woman who’ll be sitting next to you? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a bit of staring...”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” she chuckles, leaning forward to kiss her, and her lips are soft as rose petals.

* * *

“When will this infernal ride be over?”

There’s a giggle from Dorothea, light and musical. “Edie, you really are too much. Weren’t you the one that wanted a motorcar?” 

The automobile rattles through the dark streets, like a beast far past its prime and perhaps a little intoxicated rumbling unevenly through the woods. Hubert is driving, as usual, while Edelgard and Dorothea share the rear seats.

“That may be so, but I didn’t realize it would be like this.” She shifts uncomfortably in the seat, clutching the door’s handle a bit tighter. “If I could, I’d be sick.”

“I thought you were always a supporter of progress, Lady Edelgard.” She has no need to see Hubert’s face to know that he is smirking, because it creeps into his voice and gives it a lighter cadence than usual.

“I certainly am, Hubert, but not when it involves riding around in great roaring machines. I’ll take a liking to it when I get used to it, but not a moment sooner.”

“I think it’s rather fun, Edie.” Dorothea leans across to rest her head on her shoulder, comfortably intertwining an arm with hers as a rose vine does a trellis. “Won’t you let me drive next time?”

“Certainly not. You drive much too fast.”

“What a shame,” she sighs, putting on her most exaggerated pout. “And here I thought we could take a nice drive to the country under the stars… Hubie, would _you_ let me drive?”

“Certainly, Lady Dorothea.” He sounds smugger than ever.

* * *

The opera house is one of the first buildings in the city to be crowned with electric lights, and it is dazzling, as if the sun had descended upon the earth for the night instead of being tucked properly beyond the horizon. Edelgard hesitates as she rises from the automobile and into the light, as if they could burn her at any moment, but the pain does not come.

Dorothea is standing amidst the lights, shining around her like stars. Her billowing red sleeves slip down her outstretched arms and fall behind her, adorning her back as the bloodstained wings of an angel, as the petals of a rose clinging to the bud. Oh, how Edelgard loves her rose, and she comes forward, planting a kiss on her bare shoulder.

“I never thought I would see lights like this again, Edie,” Dorothea whispers. “How beautiful they are. I could just sing.”

“I’d gladly be your audience, my rose.” She kisses her again, on the neck, on the cheek.

“Silly,” Dorothea shakes her head, her red lips curling into a smile as she leans back into her wife’s touch. “I’m not the one performing tonight. Another time, perhaps.”

“I look forward to it.” She wraps her fingers around Dorothea’s and draws her hand towards her lips, pale against the red, and kisses her cold skin delicately. “Shall we wait for Hubert?”

“Oh, he’ll find us. He always does.” She allows her other arm to fall, then tugs Edelgard along towards the steps. “Come, darling. I’m eager to see what it’s like inside.”

An eagle and a rose, clothed in red and black, ascend the steps of the opera, their hands intertwined and cloaks kissing the ground behind their steps. The other theatergoers part for them almost subconsciously, as if under a spell, and some are so enchanted that they cannot tear their eyes away.

“What opera are we seeing tonight? You never told me.”

“One that I’m sure you’ll enjoy. It was rather ahead of its time, even when it was written.”

“Oh? How so?”

“It tells the story of a mysterious woman who whisks a young opera singer away. The fascinating thing is that-”

“The score was delivered to the Mittelfrank Opera in the dead of night decades ago, with no name indicating who the author was?” Edelgard interrupts, already knowing what Dorothea is going to say.

“How did you know?” Her grin is devilish, and she grips Edelgard’s hand a little tighter as she pulls her up the stairs. “Come now, Edie, surely you aren’t reluctant to see your wife’s magnum opus again, are you?”

“Lovely as your work is, my cheeks are still red from the last performance we saw.”

“I’ll admit, they were quite red. You were awfully nippy that day-”

“Dorothea!” If her heart was beating, she is sure that she would feel hot red roses blooming on her cheeks, but instead there is nothing but the cool night air and a feeling of stillness. Dorothea laughs and kisses her, pulling her into a firm embrace, as they reach the landing in front of the doors. 

The moment is over too quickly when her rose pulls away, eager to enter the opera. She hums happily as they go inside, a bird in song finally returning home to her nest. “How long it’s been since we’ve come here… how long has it been, Edie?”

“Decades,” comes the reply from the shadows.

“Are you trying to frighten me, Hubie?” He steps out into the light, his arms folded. “You’ll have to do better than that. You know I don’t frighten as easily anymore.”

“My apologies, Lady Dorothea. I’ll make a better effort next time.”

“I will certainly look forward to it.”

“Tell me Hubert, are our guests here?” Edelgard asks, her glance shifting around the lobby, a bright garden filled with flowers of all different colors and glittering gold and white marble. Even so, none are even half as lovely as her rose.

“They await you both in your box.”

“Thank you, Hubert.” Her fingers intertwine with Dorothea’s and they weave through the garden like water, never once letting go.

* * *

Dorothea has not seen Manuela in many years, nor her husband Seteth, and yet she restrains her hug, for Manuela is much older, with bones like twigs and hair like snow and wrinkles like well trodden paths in the wood. She’s still stunning and vivacious as ever, and her dress is surprisingly laced up correctly, something that she credits her husband for, because goodness knows she can’t be bothered to take the time to do it correctly. Greetings are both polite and warm, with hugs from Manuela and firm handshakes from Seteth, and Hubert opting to remain inconspicuous in the shadows. 

Shortly after Dorothea left the opera, telling only Manuela the truth of her miraculous recovery, she met her husband, in a courtship she describes as a “whirlwind.” He begs her not to expose the full details of it every time it’s brought up, which amuses his wife greatly. The fact that he was a priest initially gave both Edelgard and Dorothea pause when Manuela wanted to introduce him, but she assured them of his trustworthiness and open-mindedness, both of which proved to be in good supply. The man always reminded Edelgard of a tree, tall and strong and always standing upright, and he still does, but perhaps a bit more bent over, a bit grayer, and with glasses. He was the one to officiate her marriage to Dorothea, as Manuela watched with pride, taking care to omit any and all blessings from the proceedings.

Over the past decades, the church has fortunately grown more discerning in who they choose to bring their holy judgement down upon. Edelgard and Dorothea can live in relative peace, at least in that regard. Securing her vengeance is a wholly different, troublesome, and tiring matter, but tonight is not the time to worry about such things.

The lights fall and the music swells as they take their seats, and Edelgard feels Dorothea’s hand in hers, and her head upon her shoulder, and even if she can’t see it she knows that her rose is smiling. The opera was her home for so many years, and now that she has been returned, even if it is not as a performer, she blooms ever more brightly.

“I love you, Edie.”

“I love you too.” She brushes a kiss against the top of her head, and the eagle settles in closer to the rose as the music of the night unfurls around them. 

The rings on their fingers glisten as the stage lights rise, reminding Edelgard of the promises they made to each other decades ago. No matter what the future holds for them, they will walk the path together, side by side, hand in hand, and heart to heart. For the first time in many years, she feels at peace, and she knows that her rose feels the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: it is clear in the fic: no church is allowed near edie and dorothea. sorry  
> seteth: *exists*  
> me: OK i will make an exception because he looks very polite
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone reading this!! I'm sad to see it end, because this has been such a special week for me. All your comments and kudos mean the world to me!! Thank you again! <3


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